by Jasmin Quinn
“What are you going to do, Esma? Beat me up? You’ve already put the baby at risk with your flight from Jackman’s. What’ll you do next? Take a drink?”
Esma dropped her fists to her side and stilled, her face a mask of hurt. His words did their damage, but in the moment, he couldn’t find regret. This woman, he loved her, but what the fuck was love without trust? She was wild, unfiltered, an alcoholic. The mother of his unborn baby. Fuck, fuck. “Fuck!” He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed at the back of his head.
He watched her crumble, her lips drooping, her eyes dulling and her knees bending, bringing her down to the mattress. “I hate you.” No tears though. Nothing but venom.
He shrugged, tried to throw it off him like it didn’t matter. “No clothes until we’re ready to leave. Get back into bed and get some rest. From now on your only job is to look after my baby.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond. He had to leave, had to regain his equilibrium. Love was the worst fucking emotion in the world, he decided as he slammed his way out of the apartment and right into the middle of his two men. He looked at them as they looked back. “Don’t go in and don’t leave.” Then he marched down the stairs. This fucking safe house. Too small, he couldn’t breath as he shoved his way onto the street, leaning against the wall outside and letting the cold air blanket him, almost soothing, he was so heated. He stood for a minute, ignoring glances from passersby, and when he felt calm enough, he pulled his phone from his pocket. Pulled up a phone number and called it.
“Yuri,” he said, Rusya fashion, when his father answered. “Esma’s pregnant. She and I will get married before we leave Russia.” Straight to the point, no fucking around.
“Rusya, are you sure?” Yuri’s voice held a note of caution, careful not to betray too much of what he was thinking.
“It’s my child. I won’t lose another one to a fucking Mikhalev.” Jackman was not going to win this time.
“Yah. I understand. Your mother will be happy. She likes Esma for some reason.”
Rusya would have found it amusing if everything about this day didn’t feel laborious. His father so transparent in his distain for the Turk. He didn’t know for certain why – because she was Turkish, or Muslim, or because she belonged to Rusya and Yuri couldn’t have her. Maybe it was that.
“She won’t want to get married. She’s angry, we’re both angry.” Rusya kicked the wall with the heel of his foot as he talked. “I need to come to your house today. I need someplace that she can’t run from.”
“Of course. Do you want me to come to you?”
Rusya thought about this. It wasn’t ideal but it would work best. “Yes. Get mom to provide a change of clothing for Esma. She has nothing. Needs everything including shoes.”
“Will they fit?” Yuri sounded doubtful.
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll do until I get her something in her size.”
He ended the call, leaned against the wall for another moment, resting, getting ready for round two. Then entered the apartment building, took the stairs two at a time, nodded to his men like there wasn’t a fucking thing wrong in the world. As he entered the apartment, walked to the bedroom and stepped through the door, he rehearsed what he would say. Esma was sitting in the chair in the corner, a blanket draped around her like a toga, tucked up over chest, and under her armpits. Her dark gaze met his as he sat on the end of the bed, a few feet from her. She couldn’t get to the door without running by him.
“Yuri is on his way over with some clothes for you. We’re going to my parents’ home until your new identification is ready. We’ll be married there – ”
“I’m not marrying you.”
“You are, Esma.” He shifted closer to her, his eyes piercing her. “My child will not be born a bastard. He’ll be raised under my roof by both of his parents.”
Esma dropped her eyes to her hands. She was shaking, but he couldn’t find his empathy for her. Not in the moment.
“You’ll kill me, Rusya.”
“I won’t. Unless you give me a reason. You won’t though, will you?”
Esma shook her head, not meeting his eyes, not saying a word.
He sighed as he studied her. Not today or tomorrow, but someday. Someday, she’d give him a reason.
Chapter 59
Esma’s identification was delayed as her last name would soon be changed to Savisin. It would be her wedding gift, Olga told her. The woman was oblivious to everything. Or maybe she wasn’t, maybe she was a good bratva wife, knowing her role, knowing not to question her men. At least she was helpful, getting Esma clothes she needed, shoes that fit. Making all the arrangements for the wedding.
Olga set Esma up in the same room she’d used previously. Until the wedding, until the wedding night. Then she would move into Rusya’s room. Their room.
Esma had been napping when Olga entered the bedroom. She was doing that a lot. Still recovering from her ordeal, the stress, the baby. She was worried about the baby more than anything else. More than getting married, more than Rusya’s threats. This little child had already become everything to her. It was unfair to burden a little babe with that kind of emotional baggage, but Esma needed something to hold on to. She would be married to an unforgiving man, a hard man. Someone she loved… or had loved. Someone who had never said those words to her.
She sat up slowly as she yawned, smiled at Olga and leaned against the headboard. The grandma-to-be was so happy that Esma couldn’t begrudge her anything.
“I brought you some soup. You and the little one,” she said in heavily-accented English as she set the tray at a small table and beckoned Esma over.
Esma reluctantly crawled out from the warm covers and padded over, sat on a chair as Olga placed a bowl of a thick chowder in front of her. “Thank you.” Esma smiled as her stomach growled in approval.
Olga sat in the opposite chair and beamed at her. “You do not mind if we practice my English, do you?”
Esma shook her head as she inhaled the rich smell of the chowder. “It’s a good day to speak English.” She spoke a little slower so Olga’s unpracticed ear could interpret the words.
Olga grinned like a child. “You look better today. Not so pale. How are you feeling?”
Esma shrugged as she wondered what constituted pale? She was always brown, light in the winter, a little darker in the summer months. “I’m okay. It seems as long as I don’t let myself get hungry, then I don’t feel sick.”
“It was like that with me too. Both times.”
Esma paused, the spoon raised half-way to her lips. “Both times?”
“I lost one. Rusya should have had an older brother. Then Rusya. I was lucky I carried him to term. But no more after that. Too dangerous for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Esma said carefully, all too aware of how vulnerable her baby was.
Olga shrugged. “Rusya is my heart. You have a good man and he has a good woman. You will be good parents.”
Esma put her spoon in the chowder, her appetite waning. “How can you know, Olga?”
“That you are a good woman? Rusya loves you. He… uh… does not love easily. Never maybe, not even Irina.”
Esma gave her eyes a little roll. “He’s marrying me because I’m pregnant.” She didn’t add that she thought he might be incapable of love, but only because it was Rusya’s mother she was talking to. She needed an ally right now and Olga seemed to be offering herself up.
“I think, yes. He is honourable. But he would not marry unless you had his heart.”
Esma decided not to argue. “Maybe,” she murmured and picked up the spoon again, took a small bite. “The chowder is delicious.”
“Chowder?” Olga’s mouth fumbled over the word as she repeated it.
Esma nodded. “Yes, chowder. Thick soup.”
“Ahh. Good. Chowder.” She tapped her temple. “I will forget though.”
They were bonding, the two of them, and Esma decided to be Machiavellian about it, take the opportunit
y to see if she could pull some information from Olga. Rusya had been spare with his words the past three days and Olga had been busy with wedding arrangements. “Is Rusya here?”
Olga shook her head. “He and Yuri are out, at a meeting.”
Esma’s stomach flipped over as she thought of Rusya out in the open in Moscow. Jackman had a long reach. “Don’t you worry?”
“About Yuri? Never. He has… like a cat.” She stumbled, said in Russian, “You know, nine lives.” Then back to English. “Rusya too. Look at him. He was knifed when he was 16, he survived. He was almost blown-up; he lived through a plane crash.”
Esma barked out a short laugh. “So he has six lives left and he’s hard on wives.”
Olga didn’t understand and Esma let it go. She scraped the bottom of the bowl, took the last mouthful of chowder and grinned as she clattered the spoon into the bowl. “What now, Olga?”
“Now?” Olga popped up from her chair. “Now we try on your wedding dress.” She grabbed Esma’s reluctant hand and dragged her out of the room and down the hall to one of the other bedrooms. The bed in the room had several different items on it, all laid out with care. An ivory wedding dress, a beautiful corset, a garter, lacy thigh highs, small satiny shoes.
Esma ran her hands over her face as she surveyed it. “This is too much.”
“It is not! It will be a small wedding. Some family and friends. Rusya knows. He and Yuri will wear tuxes.” Her eyes sparkled. “Black. I picked them out. We have handsome men.”
Esma grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Like Rusya did, she realized. “Olga. Truly. I don’t want to hurt you, but the truth is I don’t want to marry him. He’s forcing this on me.”
Olga huffed and switched to Russian. “You’re carrying his baby. You’ll be his wife and it’ll be fine.”
Esma shook her head, pursing her lips stubbornly. “It won’t be fine.”
“Do you have a better offer? The father of your child wants to marry you, stay in your life, help you raise the baby. How is that worse than being on your own? And if you fought the marriage, refused, Rusya might eventually let you leave, but not with his child.”
“Fuck, I know all that.”
Olga narrowed her eyes. “Esma, don’t swear in front of the baby.”
“He’ll kill me someday, Olga. Because I do swear. Because I disagree with him and he doesn’t like it. Because I’m not a good bratva wife.”
Olga snorted. “So what? Look at me. It gets you nowhere to be a good wife. Better to be difficult and keep your man on his toes.”
Esma considered the woman in front of her. Maybe not so stupid, not so naive as Esma pegged her. “I don’t know.”
“He won’t kill you. Bratva men don’t kill their wives. It’s frowned upon. Besides, you’re the mother of his child. Give him a couple more babies. He’ll be happy.”
“It’s –”
“Enough!” Olga picked the wedding dress off the bed, switched back to English. “Try this on, so we can sew it to fit.”
Esma let Olga have her way. Why not? She wasn’t going to walk away from this house, not going to escape the wedding. She was locked down and surrounded by guards and her future mother-in-law, who was mightier than all the men were anyway because she was the most excited of everyone.
Chapter 60
Esma’s stomach was in knots and she thought about running fast and far. She thought about fighting, kicking, screaming, refusing. But then what? Rusya would take her back to Vancouver and lock her up until the baby was born. At least if they were married, she’d have some sense of control even if that didn’t translate into reality.
She was alone in her bedroom. Her former bedroom. What few items she’d possessed had already been moved by the housekeeper into Rusya’s room. He hadn’t touched her, not once since he brought her to this house. He talked to her as needed, but it was perfunctory. Quick, to the point. Mind you, that meant nothing where Rusya was concerned.
It was her wedding day. Tonight, they were going to be together. The idea of it made her heart skitter. What would he expect? And what would she do? The thought of him touching her made her tremble, made her legs a little weak. The effect he had on her was unholy.
Olga knocked lightly. “It’s me,” she said gaily through the door. “Can I come in?”
Fuck! “Of course.” Esma said but it didn’t matter. Olga had opened the door and was already inside the room, her eyes sweeping the bride-to-be. She held a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a small box clutched in the other.
“Esma, you’re beautiful!”
Esma took another look in the mirror. The wedding dress was off-white, simple and elegant with long-sleeves that hugged her arms, a boat collar, low enough to expose her collar-bones and it was plain, no lace, no beads, nothing frilly or excessive about it.
Like Esma.
It hugged her curves, clung to her breasts and stomach before draping down to the floor. A seamless white lace bustier underneath with matching white panties and lacy thigh highs. The shoes matched the dress, small, silky, barely a heel. Next to Rusya, she’d be so small. Her hair was pinned up, the curls somewhat tamed thanks to Olga and hair combs, the colour of honey and the shape of twigs.
She had to admit that it was the most beautiful she’d ever been. The most beautiful dress she’d ever worn. She turned to Olga and smiled. “I look nice.”
“You look perfect! One more thing. Something old, besides me.” She opened the little vintage box that she’d been clutching in her hand and pulled out a pair of earrings. “These belonged to my grandmother, who also didn’t have piercings. They’re rose gold with diamonds.”
Esma held herself still as Olga clipped the earrings on. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”
Olga stepped back and admired her handiwork. “We’re ready then. Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t ruin my wedding by throwing up on Rusya.” She laughed gaily, then handed Esma the small bouquet of white lilacs.
She was a good woman, Esma realized as Olga took her hand, tucked it into the crook of her arm and escorted her from the room. Making the best of this for her soon-to-be daughter-in-law. Or maybe it was more self-serving than that. But still, Olga embraced Esma and this wedding when she could have resisted the whole idea. Olga had the choice to made it harder or easier and the woman chose easier. Esma loved her in that moment.
As they walked down the circular staircase arm in arm, Esma felt herself shaking. This was too much. The people were there, in the living room. All standing, eyes on her. Maybe 20. There was soft music playing in the background. White flowers in vases everywhere. Lilacs, roses, lilies. A priest, she didn’t even know from what denomination. And Rusya and Yuri in tuxes standing next to the priest.
Rusya! He was perfect. The black tux moulded to his body like he had been born wearing it. And a black shirt and vest under it, a tie, dark silky blue. Everything dark, his eyes searing into hers, his expression schooled. He was tense, on edge, even if it didn’t show in his face. She wondered if it was the same for him, this wedding, not really what he wanted, but for the baby, needed to happen. And if that were the case, then they were doomed before they started.
Esma’s felt her chest tighten, her throat constricting. Thought now would be a good time to bolt, but did nothing except clutch harder at Olga’s arm, her hand, and let the woman walk her to Rusya, through the people she didn’t know, who smiled at her, nodded like they were friends. She couldn’t look at Rusya, couldn’t meet his eyes and so as Olga let her go, next to Rusya, she stared straight ahead, at the priest, at his collar. He spoke words, but Esma didn’t hear them. She heard the drone of them, a distant murmuring. She wished she would faint. It wouldn’t matter though. This wedding was going to happen whether she was conscious or not.
The priest said something to her and when she didn’t respond he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her towards Rusya. They were facing each other now except she couldn’t
look up, kept her eyes to his chest, focusing on his tie, trying hard to conceal her shaking. She flashbacked to her first wedding, another wedding foisted upon her when she was too young and stupid to realize what she was doing.
Now she was neither. And she knew who he was, this father of her child. Her first husband had wanted children and she refused. One more reason to hit her but she wouldn’t bring a child into a violent, loveless household. And now, with Rusya, she was doing exactly that. But this time was different. It was the first time in her life she’d carried a child in her womb. It made her different, softer she thought. And maybe it would make Rusya softer too.
Maybe.
Olga was putting the ring in her hand, the ring to put on Rusya’s finger. Drawing her back to the wedding. She took it, a simple ring, white gold, fumbled it between her trembling fingers. The priest told her the words to say as she repeated them softly, each word, focusing on Rusya’s hands, big hands that had slapped her, thrown her, threatened her, touched her, caressed her. She tried to push the ring up onto his finger but couldn’t get her own fingers to listen to her brain, couldn’t guide it, move it past the knuckle. Rusya took her hand in his, held it and helped her. Then it was her turn. He took her hand and held it gently in his grip, said his words, draping them around her softly, the promises he would keep, then slipped the ring on. The priest said a few more words and it was over. They were to kiss. Rusya brought his hand under her chin and raised her face to his, brushed her lips lightly to the polite applause of the guests.
She felt it, that small kiss, straight through to her toes. She missed him, she realized. Crazy, but there it was. They signed the documents, she and Rusya first, then Olga and Yuri. Yuri bent and kissed her cheek. “Welcome to the family, daughter,” he said as he offered a small smile. Olga was more demonstrative, throwing her arms around Esma and pulling her into a tight embrace. The effusive hug helped centre Esma and she felt the shaking subside.
